


Where All Roads Lead

by Dryad



Series: Night Moves [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, NC17, Omega John, Omega Variant, Omega Verse, casefile
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:04:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2001369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dryad/pseuds/Dryad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Please note the tags, there's a section in here that may be triggering.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Where All Roads Lead

**Author's Note:**

> Please note the tags, there's a section in here that may be triggering.

John watched the scenery flow by with a pleasure bordering on idiocy. It was just the standard scene; motorway services, trains speeding past, tower blocks. Apart from the low susurrus of wheels on tarmac, the car was silent. Besides the handles, there were only window controls in the doors, and though John pressed them, the windows remained stubbornly shut. He knocked on the divider separating himself from the driver, knocked again. "Hey mate, crack open the window?"

Ah well, who needed fresh air anyway. Made him a little nervous. He hoped this really was Mr. Holmes' car, and not the worst practical joke ever played by Thaddeus Sholto. No, no, that was impossible. Thaddeus had signed the papers Mr. Holmes' had brought, as had the Major and Peter. Which meant John was free of them. And yet, had he really made the right decision? The problem was that there was no way to know until he actually met Mr. Holmes' brother Sheridan…Seamus? Sean? It began with an s, that much he remembered. 

He should be happy he was out of Brighton, traveling to elsewhere. Judging by the road signs - oh, the M25! He was going to London. Not the countryside, that would have been fine, more than fine. But London hopefully meant opportunities to walk around, maybe go to a park, or even just the supermarket. He would be happy to get his dinner at the local Tesco or Morrisons or hell, go to ASDA if he had to. The familiar rush of adrenalin spiked in his belly and he began to take a slow breath to the count of five, release for six.

Ten minutes later he felt better. A lucky escape - yes, he _could_ control the panic. There really was no reason for fear. Not yet, anyway. Besides, he was a soldier and a doctor, he was used to the unknown, and in situations far worse than this. 

If only the lingering doubt would go away.

Better to concentrate on something else, like maybe was there a radio back here? Even with the divider for privacy the car was hardly a stretch limo. Nonetheless the was a center stand between the seats in front of him. He pressed the center of the stand, the top retreated into the seat, while the center lifted to reveal two bottles of water and a nip of 10 year old Islay single malt, a thin handle jutting out between the bottles of water. Interesting. Tempting though it was to pocket the nip, what kind of impression would that make upon either Holmes? Nope, Fate was not going to get her due, not this time. There was something else in there - John undid his seat belt and slipped into the seat opposite to have a good rummage. Ah, yes, a Yorkie bar, a mint Aero, a couple of Cadbury Celebrations candies, a single TWIX, a snack packet of Haribo - what the hell was this? Did Mr. Holmes have a sweet tooth? John broke into giggles. As his doctor, he was going to have to have words. 

Candy and booze, no radio. John knew which he would have preferred. He cracked open a bottle of water and drank half of it in one go. The candy was calling out to be eaten, so he pushed on the little handle and the bottles obligingly went back into their compartment. Easy peasy.

"Lemon squeezy," he murmured. God, if only he knew what was coming! He needed to make a contingency plan. Alright, yes, that would whittle away some time. He finished the water and returned to his original side of the car. 

The first thing: under no circumstances would he stay if Mr. Holmes or his brother turned out to be like Thaddeus. He would fight back, no matter the cost. Or run away given the first chance.

The second thing: see the first thing.

He knew himself well enough to know that he could never stand prison time, so murder was right out. If he were a Beta that would be an option. Running and hiding, presuming he actually lived long enough to do so, was easy for Betas. Alright, somewhat easy. Afghanistan was probably not the best comparison. The assumption was that Alphas, Betas, and Omegas existed in the Middle East even if no one had proof. Which was weird in and of itself. John never had been able to tell if so-and-so Big Shot was an Alpha or just someone with an extra bit of asshole to their nature. Most people had seemed pretty normal to him, nothing outside the gamut of regular human behavior given the war. Then again, his education was lacking in that regard. He had taken all the Alpha/Omega classes offered - all two of them - during his med school days, and in retrospect it was clear that the students had been given the Hello! magazine version. No one had discussed - well, no one knew to ask, did they? All of which was pretty useless knowledge. He huffed a bitter laugh and leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window, closing his eyes. Oh god, he was in a world of trouble.

John woke up when his pillow moved. Startled, he sat back, blinking hard.

"Sir," said the driver, a ludicrous stereotype in a black suit, black tie, white shirt, a chauffeur's hat, black driving gloves. 

A light breeze swept into the car, bringing with it the smell of a city - London town. Still stiff from his last heat, John slowly got out of the car. His bag was on the pavement, right in front of a small cafe, Speedy's. John stretched, turned to check out his surroundings. The street - Baker Street - was wide, with no trash at the kerb or in the gutters. Residential above the ground floor stores. Good buildings, classic lines. 

His attention was brought back to the driver, who had gotten back into the car and was…driving off. Open-mouthed, John frowned and started after the car. Two steps later he stopped. What the hell was he supposed to do now? Mindful of his bag, he turned back and slung it over his shoulder. Dithering over where to go, he realized he _was_ standing in front of a cafe.

He patted his jacket's pockets - had it always been so roomy? It had been such a long time since he had last been in the real world that money was an issue; namely, did he have any. Checking the inner pocket, he was surprised and gratified to find 40 quid tucked inside a slip of paper. He opened it -

_John - I'm writing this in case I don't get_  
 _the chance to see you before you go. I trust you_  
 _will go some day. He's a shit, an absolute shit,_  
 _and if I didn't have two children to feed I would_  
 _have told him off long ago._

_Anyway. I'm going to miss you and I hope you have_  
 _a wonderful life. More importantly, someday I want_  
 _my 40 pounds back._

_Love, Catherine (Cat) McMaster._

John shook his head. Someday he would pay her back, in full, with interest. Right now, though, it was time for tea.

It was absurdly wonderful, sitting in a cafe, waiting on a tuna and sweetcorn baguette, drinking real tea and finishing the crossword puzzle from a two day old paper. For all anyone passing by knew, he was merely a customer, maybe on the way to his job, maybe unemployed, maybe nobody was paying any attention to him _at all!_

So engrossed was he in the puzzle, he was slow to notice the shadow that had fallen across the table until it moved. Finally he looked up - and up - to find a tall man wearing a dramatic coat with the collar turned up staring back down at him. "Yes?"

The man sniffed. "John Watson, thirty-two, recently invalided home from Afghanistan. Gunshot wound to the shoulder, psychosomatic limp. One older sibling with whom you don't keep in contact. Married, no children, but the marriage has failed which is why you're sitting here in this cafe waiting for me," He held out one gloved hand. "Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective."

John blinked. He knew he looked like an idiot, sitting there with his mouth hanging open, yet after that litany of facts, what else was he supposed to do? A second later, watching the man's sea-glass eyes narrow, he came to himself and took the proffered hand. He gestured towards the bench seat across the table. "John Watson, but you knew that already. That was amazing, by the way."

Sherlock tilted his head to one side, clasping his hands together on the table top. "I could have read that in your file."

Oh. Oh right.

"But I didn't have to. My brother knows better." 

The voice was outstanding. Tone and tenor, depth and diction. Best not get distracted. "So…is he meeting us here? I don't really know where I'm supposed to be going."

"You're coming with me," Holmes announced, waving away a server approaching with a cup and saucer. "You're an Omega Variant, you presented late - "

"Can we not do this here?" John said in a quiet rush, glancing around the cafe. Admittedly there was only one other customer besides the two of them, yet he really did not want to spread his status around in public.

Holmes twisted in his seat, taking in the same scenery, plus the servers behind the counter. "You're worried someone will find out, someone who won't take kindly - ah, of course. Come upstairs, then, see if the flat is to your taste. I should warn you, I play the violin at all hours of the night, and sometimes I don't talk for days. There's no need for formality between us."

Okay…he was worried that John would find his behavior objectionable. Even though John was his intended. Bought and paid for, almost. This suggested John had a choice in the matter - hunh.

One of the servers at the counter waved at him. "Sir?"

"Got to pay," he muttered apologetically as he slid from the hard bench seat. Glad of his foresight to get his sandwich to go, he paid for it and the tea, then followed Sherlock quite literally next door. Up the stairs and into the flat, which though cluttered, was cozy. The landlady was sweet and scattered and John was pretty sure he was going to be the recipient of as much tea and biscuits as he could possibly manage.

He was all right with that.

Sherlock shooed Mrs. Hudson away, closing the doors behind her. He moved into the kitchen and put the kettle on the boil, then leaned against the counter, eying John all the while. Finally he folded his arms and said, "You presented late, after you were injured. You had your first heat in hospital, which is how you came to be married. You are unable to conceive, hence the possibility of marriage to me."

"More or less," John said, wondering if it was okay if he sat down. "Your brother - "

"Oh, what about him," Sherlock came around the table, brushing needlessly close to John, and sat on a very modern green leather and chrome chair near the fireplace. "So tell me, John, what else you know of Omega and Alpha."

John shrugged and followed to the reddish-brown chair facing Sherlock. Solid, but with good give. Nice. "Mostly what I read after, after I presented," he said, stumbling a little over the words. He felt his face begin to heat despite his very great wish not to blush. "I have a sister. She's an Alpha. Always thought that's why my parents had me. I grew up knowing that I would never meet her - "

"Because that's not how things are done," murmured Sherlock, crossing his legs.

John let out a bitter huff of laughter. "But then she did, out of the blue. Contact me. Us. Mum and dad were shocked. I don't think any of us were really prepared for that to happen. They're not supposed to know who their birth parents are, which is ridiculous."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Ridiculous? Do you know why?"

"I don't know. An inconvenience?"

"Because Alpha first siblings frequently try to murder their younger siblings. Adopting out an Alpha when they're born is eminently practical."

"Ah…well. She hasn't tried to do that so far," Of course, she _was_ extremely angry with their parents, and himself for existing. 

"And what else."

John would have happily lived the rest of his life without one single person knowing the details, yet clearly Sherlock wanted everything. Unfortunately John's future depended on him telling, too. He shifted in the chair to ease the ache in his hip, straightened as much as he could. Start as you mean to go on, that was what Dad had always said. "They don't teach you the details in Medical School, not if you're a beta who's not going into family practice," he closed his eyes briefly, but the memories rushed in to fill the space behind his lids, and he opened them again to look at his spouse-to-be. "I was shot in the field. Rushed to hospital, where I was operated on. A fever developed, an infection," he had to stop to take a deep breath. 

"And your first heat was triggered, which is highly unusual, though it has been known for high stress to trigger latent tendencies," answered Sherlock, fingers steepled in front of his chin. "While extremely rare, it is also not unheard of for Beta parents to have Alpha or Omega offspring. Your sister should have been their first clue."

"Yeah, well. That's just statistics, isn't it? You never expect the one percent of the one percent to happen to you."

"Is that they told you?" 

John looked askance at Sherlock. "Isn't that the right percentage?"

"It's of no consequence now," Sherlock answered.

"Anyway, you can't test for Omega," John said. "It's impossible, research has gone on for decades without result. No one knows why some people turn late in life and others are simply born that way."

He had to relax, it was far too early to antagonize the man. Remember Thaddeus, that was the ticket. John began again. "It didn't occur to anyone, what was happening to me, until…until Thaddeus found me wandering in the hall at three in the morning," He laughed shakily, trying to make light of the churning in his gut, the tightness in his chest. He could feel the tears coming and wished Sherlock would go away, use the bathroom, do anything to let John not tell the story. "It was late at night, I was hungry and wanted a snack, so I went down to the canteen - "

"An Omega in heat legally has no right of refusal," murmured Sherlock. "Alphas have no need for consent."

"Yeah, they don't," John breathed, blinking away the memory of the darkened canteen, half the overhead lights turned off to save money. The shutter on the service hutch had been closed - only the snack machines were on - he had caught movement from the corner of his eye, a shadow - . 

"An unclaimed or unbonded Omega presenting their first heat are married to the primary Alpha in the eyes of the law, regardless of whether or not the Alpha already has a spouse."

"I…didn't know that."

"Clearly."

"Christ, it's _Reign of the Kadins_ in real life.."

"That is perhaps putting too strong a spin on it. Say rather that Alphas will take a strange Omega should they fall into heat outside of their own home, but typically only have a relationship with one spouse in particular."

"Still sounds like a harem to me."

Sherlock's eyebrows twitched, as if John were being unreasonable with his opinion, John closed his eyes. He heard Sherlock get up, kept his eyes shut and his breathing slow. 

"Traditionally, the first time the Alpha and Omega meet is amongst witnesses. They talk, their families talk, the stars are read, they have sex."

"What?" John's eyes flew open, and he stared at Sherlock, who was standing in front of the window, watching the traffic on the street below. He was a vision in white and charcoal, his shirt luminous, the tailored trousers emphasizing the fine curve of his arse. "What did you say?"

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at him, a quizzical expression on his face. "John."

"No, you're wrong. I've been in the same, no, I would know," He faltered, thinking back to Thaddeus and his potentials, remembering him following Helene into the bedroom only a few days before. Right, John had worked out, showered, and as he left the bathroom, Helene was going into one of the spare bedrooms - Thaddeus behind her - and then he had dressed and gone to the kitchen - there was no time. Only a few minutes passed - surely there could not have been time enough…? No, of course not, she was too young. Right?

"You really do know nothing, don't you," commented Sherlock. He snorted, retreated to the kitchen. 

Ignoring the sounds of cups and saucers, the refrigerator door opening and closing, John closed his eyes again. This was more information than he had ever learned before, about Alphas and Omegas. Thaddeus had been one thing, Sherlock was going to be something else entirely. He was going to have to keep his wits about him, that much was clear. At least the flat was comfortable. Lived in, unlike the Brighton house, which while very pretty, was not the sort of place one felt - just look at the pronouns he was using, for god's sake! 'Not the place one felt' - unless a person grew up in a house like that, there was no inclination to leave a mess, or be even slightly sloppy. He thought he might be able to relax, here at 221b.

"John."

The voice was to his left, but before he had a chance to do more than acknowledge Sherlock had spoken, something hit him lightly on the chest. John jerked forward, reflexively ready to hit the floor before his brain caught up to his body and registered that the item was non-damaging. A cash machine card, in fact. He sat up and looked at Sherlock, pinching the card between two fingers.

"We're out of tea."

"Oh…kay," John leaned around the corner of the chair to watch him walk into the kitchen and sit down at the table with the microscope. Now that he was really looking, he could see the able was littered with various other equipment useful in chemical analysis. "You…want me to get tea?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, peering at something and adjusting the lens at the same time. "There's a Tesco Express around the corner. Get some biscuits, too. I'm craving a Tunnocks Tea Cake."

"Right. Right, I'll just go…get that," John slowly got out of the chair. Thaddeus would never have even thought to let him go to the store, never mind giving him his cash card. Maybe this was a test? To see how far he would go? Or not? Should he refuse to go, test Sherlock's boundaries instead? He drifted to the door and gathered his coat, which still had his sandwich in one pocket. He had food and some money left, he could simply not come back?

He found the store, managed to find the biscuits and the tea despite being completely overwhelmed by the choice of foodstuffs available. Standing in the long line - why on earth was only one checkout lane with a real person available? - with the wire basket at his feet, the consequences of being alone and outside began to prey on his mind. The back of his shirt was beginning to stick to his skin, and not because it was overly warm in the store, either. People seemed to be crowding him, and it was making him feel on edge. 

"That's almost a healthy lunch."

John flashed the speaker an almost smile, that calculated upturn of the lips that did not reach the eyes but was polite all the same.

"Drop the crisps and the biscuits and you'll be right as rain."

He jerked his chin at the basket. "Mostly for my flatmate."

"She's got a sweet tooth, right?"

"Sure."

The man, a bald bloke with coke bottle glasses, beamed at John, as if he had said something hilarious. "I know this is a bit forward of me, but would you like to go out to dinner?"

"Uh, no, thanks. I've got to be getting back," he said, shuffling forward. There was not quite enough room on the sliding counter for his few items. Looking at the items on there already, honestly, who needed thirty-four cans of cat food and fifteen cans of assorted oily fish. Good for the heart, though.

"She taking care of you at least? Your flatmate?"

"Seems to be," answered John. He held up his hand with the cash card. "Gave me her card."

"Hey," said the checkout lady, a matron close in age to Mrs. Hudson. Her frosted hair sparkled as she passed his orange juice and water bottles by the scanner. "How are you today?"

"Fine," he answered, completely un-nerved by her chattiness. The world was turning more American by the minute. "The tea and biscuits are a separate transaction."

"Okay. I haven't seen you in here before, have I?"

John looked at her and immediately realized it was the wrong decision. "No, no."

"Four pounds ninety, please."

"How about lunch sometime?" asked the man behind him.

John dug through his pockets for the change, holding Sherlock's card with his other hands. "No thanks. Here you go."

"My name's Cherie, I'm usually free at night," she said, taking the card. "You got your phone handy? I can put my number in before you go."

"Just the tea and biscuits, thanks," he watched her swipe the card, practically ripped it out of her hands afterward. He wanted out as soon as possible, and that meant being rude. He grabbed his bag and started away even while she was saying a goodbye.

Baldy chimed in, calling, "If you change your mind, you just let me know."

No chance, mate. He hustled out of the store and turned left blindly, broke into a trot just to make sure he escaped them all. Quite how he found himself sitting on a bench in Regent's Park, the bag next to him, clutching the remains of his sandwich to his chest and shivering in the bright afternoon light was beyond his comprehension. When the hell had he even eaten the sandwich? His memory was blank, although the taste of tuna lingered on his tongue. Making a face at the remembrance of fish, he searched the bag for the orange juice, opened and swigged half of it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

The park was lovely. It was well maintained, popular with dog-walkers, apparently, and nannies. No surprises there. He wished he could truly enjoy it. Of course it would take time to readjust to his new home - he had only been in London for a few hours, there was no need to think he could just pick up and get on with things any more. Just because at one time he _had_ been able to do that, meant nothing. There was always Ella's advice - he decided to practice being in the now, to simply sit in the sun and feel the heat. Or as Joe Kidder had put it, feeling the radiation. John hoped Joe was doing just that back in Texas. The crazy fool. Made a mean chili out of the most random ingredients, though.

A good man in a firefight and that thought was all it took for John to be back in Afghanistan, watching blood burst from the back of the head of the teenage boy he had just shot. He sucked in a breath, let it out shakily. A shadow fell across the seat of the bench. John looked up - hunh.

"Alright?"

"Mm," John had to turn away from Sherlock's pale eyes. "What time is it?"

"Nearly four. You've been gone for over three hours."

"Sorry," He wanted to say, _I've not been outside this long since I was in Afghanistan. I don't know how to be outdoors any more. I don't know what you want from me._ Instead, he said. "I lost track of time."

Sherlock kept on looking at him, until he had to glance over, just for a second, to see what he was thinking. Faint concern, yet immediate dismissal of it at the same time. An odd combination. John was starting to get nervous, so he shifted his gaze to the group of young children playing footie not too far away. They were little, a single man in the middle of the group, urging them this way and that. A group of women stood to one side, laughing and talking amongst themselves.

"A neighborhood playdate," said Sherlock suddenly. "Three yummy mummys and four nannies. The woman standing by the bench in the three quarter-length camel coat is new to the neighborhood and would like to join the group. She hangs on the outskirts, smiling, yet not approaching for fear of rejection. She also has her phone in hand, supposedly reading texts. She keeps a close eye on her child as well as the group. Newly married, husband in banking, but not in the City."

"What else?"

"The woman in the green skirt is having an affair with the Italian woman's husband. The Italian woman knows and is planning on using that information at some point in the not too distant future - jewelry, I suspect, that she can sell or pawn once the divorce begins."

"Very smart of her," said John. "How do you know which woman is Italian?"

"The style of her trousers, the cut of her hair - not typically British - the tone of her skin, and most importantly, the thickness of her accent."

John was honestly impressed. He let the bag slip down to his lap. "That was fantastic."

"You think so?"

"Of course. It was quite amazing. Why, what do people usually say?"

"Piss off."

There was no holding back on the grin, even if he had to look away to do it.

"Come on, I want my tea."

They returned to the flat to find Mrs. Hudson flitting about at the top of the stairs.

"Oh, boys, you have a client!" she whispered. "I couldn't find any tea, so I served some of that nice whisky instead."

"Not the Tomatin!" exclaimed Sherlock, aghast.

"No, the Dalmore twelve."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

John watched Sherlock's goodbye kiss to Mrs. Hudson's cheek with private amusement. She patted his hand on her way down the stairs, and for a moment he wished he could kiss her cheek, too, because she seemed to be that kind of woman, the one everyone was fond of no matter how dotty she appeared to be on the surface. Besides, Sherlock was clearly not the kind of bloke to harbor idiocy of any kind, which meant she had to have a brain in there somewhere.

Inside the flat, a man sat on the sofa. He had dark hair and white skin, wore jeans, navy suit jacket, and a jumper in British Racing Green over a pale blue shirt. He was looking at his rocks glass and frowning, as if the Dalmore were personally offending him. He saw them and stood, leaving the glass on the coffee table. "Hello, my name is Tom Quinn. I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes."

"You've found him," said Sherlock, divesting himself of his coat and gloves and handing them to John. "What can I do for you, Mr. Quinn?"

John fumbled with the bag, ultimately dropping it while hanging up the coat. The damned thing was far heavier than it looked.

"Please, call me Tom."

Consulting Detective, that was what Sherlock had called himself only a few hours earlier. Must be like a private eye, John mused, opening the refrigerator. A second later he recoiled. "Sherlock!"

"The left hand side of the top shelf. Don't touch anything uncovered, I've experiments to conduct."

"Yeah, I'll say," muttered John, gingerly moving a plastic-wrapped tray of something…organic…to the right. In went the rest of the sandwich, the bottles of oj, water, and the pint of whole milk. Hmm, he was definitely going to have to do another shopping trip; whatever else was in the fridge was not, ah, edible. At least not by anyone who enjoyed breathing on a regular basis.

"In 2004 I started a private security firm, Trans Atlantic Security, with my wife, Christine. We're a small firm, providing security for corporations, the very wealthy, that sort of thing. We also occasionally provide enhanced security for the government."

John sat down in his chair just in time to see Sherlock's eyebrow twitch. 

"You operate outside the rule of law."

Mr. Quinn remained stonefaced. "We do what's necessary to give our clients peace of mind."

Having seen Blackwater and other firms operate in Iraq, John knew exactly what 'peace of mind' entailed and was less than impressed.

"Late last year, we were contracted by security services - "

"Five, or six?" interrupted Sherlock.

"Five. The meeting in Sevastopol."

"Of course."

Sevastopol? A city on the Black Sea, recalled John, part of Ukraine. He had read the history of the Fusiliers often enough to know how bad the fighting there had been, back in the day. But why would MI5 need outside help?

"The meeting went without too many hitches. Rumours abounded about a certain member of the British government, however," Mr. Quinn paused, glancing at John and then back to Sherlock, who shook his head with irritation.

"The rumours?"

"That he had overstepped other matters. We made sure nothing untoward happened while he was in Sevastopol, yet recently we've heard chatter that action is being planned over here."

"And you need me for?"

Quinn scooted to the edge of the sofa, elbows on wide-splayed knees. "Your brother, Mr. Holmes, has disappeared."

Sherlock propelled himself out of his chair to pace back and forth. "Mycroft does that all the time, it's part of his job."

"Government official, Mr. Holmes," repeated Quinn.

At this point John was pretty sure Sherlock should be more upset than annoyed. When Sherlock remained silent, John said, "Why do you think he's disappeared instead of gone on holiday?"

"Oh please, not you too," said Sherlock. He scowled, but returned to the green chair.

"An associate of mine - "

"Harry Pearce?"

Quinn nodded. "He mentioned that Mr. Holmes did not make contact during a meeting that had been set up only a few hours before. An important meeting. Harry's known Mr. Holmes for many years, and is personally familiar with Mr. Holmes' habits. A message was passed on at his club that suggests Mr. Holmes is in trouble."

"Again, what do you need me for, with all of the advantages of Five at your fingertips."

"Harry wants discretion, Mr. Holmes. If it's known that your brother is no longer in charge, that he has, in fact, been kidnapped, the repercussions would be felt for years to come. The safety of Britain depends on it, you know that."

John frowned. "You make it sound like he _is_ the British Government."

They both looked at him with pitying glances.

"What?"

Sherlock crossed his legs, looking pensive. "What was he working on?" 

"There's a Canadian scientist, Dr. Ghislain Lalonde, who's been working on a micro-weapon delivery system - "

"You mean like poison pellets in the tips of umbrellas?" asked John.

"Yes," said Quinn. "Now it's not the delivery system that's dangerous so much as the micro-weapon itself. Nano-bombs capable of destroying individual cells in the body, then becoming inert."

John eyed Quinn. "You're joking, right? We already have those, they're called viruses."

"These are not organic, mister - "

"Watson. John Watson."

"These are machines that can ruin anything, John, not just the human body."

Incredulous, John glanced at Sherlock. Surely Quinn was a nut, because the very idea of a micro-machine wreaking secret, political death was insane. An intriguing possibility at best, conspiracy theory at worst.

"Alright, turn it around," said Quinn. He picked up his glass and took a sip. "Imagine this whisky is full of machines, tasty, very tiny machines. But what if they weren't going to kill me, just tweak my physiology so that one day I might feel too ill to attend a meeting with the Prime Minister, or attend a function in Kiev, or visit a contact in Lagos. What if I started getting migraines so debilitating I had to resign from my position? What if the agony was bad enough that only someone who controlled the machines could end the pain? What might I do, who might I vote for, which hot topic might I be willing to sway in that person's favor, for the chance of living life to the full? Maybe it would make my skin impermeable to bullets, or make it so I could breathe underwater without aid of gear."

"I see your point," murmured John. It was still fantasy, and yet.

"Dr. Lalonde was attending a conference in Rome, and was then to fly into Aberdeen. He personally requested your brother meet him in Aberdeen."

"Mycroft would never become involved in something like this," said Sherlock with great surety. "It's too…flighty. What's the real reason."

Quinn glanced at his feet, then reached down and pulled up his trouser leg. John could just see under the coffee table, watched him reach into his sock and pull out a small, clear card, like a credit card. He threw it onto the table, the light from the window catching it as it spun on the surface. Gold lines glinted on it. "This was slipped to me at a coffee shop. I don't know who gave it to me. It's a data - "  


"Oh, _enough!"_

John jumped at Sherlock's shout and slam of hands onto the arms of his chair. Wide-eyed, he watched Sherlock get to his feet again and stalk into the kitchen once more, hands gesticulating as he spoke.

"This is all just a ruse. Mycroft doesn't do legwork, that's what he has me for. And no, John, I do not work for the Government. You're over thinking this, Tom. Tell Harry Pearce I want to meet him," he waved one hand violently in the air. "You'll have to arrange it, I'm not allowed in Thames House any more."

"So, what? You're suggesting that none of this had to do with his disappearance?"

"Precisely. You're still lying."

John noted Quinn's steady gaze at Sherlock. He could almost see the wheels turning inside the other man's head.

"Alright," said Quinn, leaning back in his chair. "The truth is that we really don't know where Mycroft is. We don't know what this card is or how to read it. There's a microdot subscript on it, Prince's symbol. Y'know," he said at Sherlock's querelous look. "Prince? The musician? From America?"

John took in Sherlock's blank expression and motioned Quinn to continue. Though how a man of Sherlock's age did not know who Prince was - he shuddered to think of who could be next. He might have to educate the man, and almost rubbed his hands together with glee.

"The card was found underneath his desk in his office, along with a few spots of blood - his own, we've checked - and a drop of blood from no one on file. His aide is also nowhere to be found. We asked the under-aide if she had any information, but she was a mess, she needed sedation. All calls to his home have gone unanswered. His driver turned up dead yesterday afternoon in Canary Wharf, so you can see why we're concerned. He's too important a man to have gone on holiday, and the blood loss is survivable."

"I'll need to see the scene of the crime," said Sherlock, whirling around to get his coat. Then, for the second time on the day, said, "John, you're coming with me."

"Mr. Holmes, you can't, you can't just walk into Whitehall," sputtered Quinn in alarm, getting to his feet.

"Call me Sherlock, 'Mr. Holmes' sounds too much like my brother," Sherlock retrieved his phone and began texting. "As for Whitehall, something will be arranged."

At the bottom of the stairs Quinn hesitated. "We shouldn't be seen together."

"It's being taken care of. I recommend a taxi; we'll wait here until you're gone."

"Alright then. I'll let you know when Harry can meet with you."

Quinn took his leave, Sherlock closing the door firmly behind him. He faced John. "What do you think?"

John shrugged. "I only saw spooks from afar in Afghanistan. He seems like he's telling the truth. Well," he continued at Sherlock's eye-roll. "Bits of the truth. I'm nobody, though, Sherlock. They're not going to let us into Whitehall, you know."

Sherlock smiled confidently. "Of course they will, John."

Moments later they left Baker Street in the back of another sleek black car. Sherlock continued to text for a minute, then put the phone back in his pocket. "When we get there, you're Captain Watson. You have special dispensation to see Mr. Mycroft Holmes, don't let anyone tell you different. If they do, make a fuss."

Oh? John was to be himself? His former self? In addition to being Sherlock's new spouse? No, put all the doubts aside, John. Concentrate on the facts at hand, even if they are barking. "Are we supposed to be married yet?"

"Ah, that," Sherlock looked out the side window and pondered. "No," he said, talking to John while looking out the front window. "For our current purposes that would not be convenient. Mycroft and I find it better if people assume we hate one another. Which we do, naturally."

"Naturally," John echoed faintly. "Where will you be?"

"Here and there, John, here and there."

John was not precisely enlightened by this comment, but kept his mouth shut. Strange, how only last night he was trying to accept he no longer would be under Thaddeus' thumb, and now he had more freedom than he would ever have imagined. Then again, if Mr. Holmes had really been kidnapped, this was probably temporary and he should enjoy it while he could.

The car rolled to a stop just past 10 Downing Street. John sat still until Sherlock reached across him and opened the door. "Oh right," he said, slowly getting out of the car. With one hand on its roof for support, he bent over and said, "Where should I meet you, after?"

Sherlock's lips curled up into a vicious smile. "I'll see you inside."

John closed the door and tugged his jumper down. God, he should have dressed for this. Nodding at the guard outside No.10, he strode down to the next entrance and knocked on the door. It opened immediately, an older gentleman in a brown suit stepping back to allow him inside. 

He walked down a short hallway with another door at the end, which then opened into a large, unexpectedly light foyer. It was like something out of a BBC drama or a country house magazine; pale cream walls, a lot of gilt edging, chandeliers, the footsteps of government workers silent on the thick pile of the red and gold carpet. Highly polished side tables and white chairs with more gilt edging lined the hallways to his left and right. Directly in front of him was a wide staircase leading to the first floor, an unseen skylight bringing sunshine to pool at the foot of the stairs below. To the left, another set of stairs. Before he had a chance to ask where the information desk was, the gent who had opened the door ushered him towards the stairs leading down with an outstretched arm.

At this point he figured he would play along, as if he knew what he was doing. Not his mistake if Security was completely and utterly lax on the job. A bit worrisome, though, to think that any random bloke could enter the Government Offices of Great Britain without so much as a By Your Leave. 

They went down two levels, the stairs becoming narrower and less grand - everything becoming less grand - going down a long hallway and another set of stairs until they reached some sub-level that was, frankly, dark and a little dingy. The air was fresh though, which was a good sign. They then went through a fire-door and up another set of stairs, still dark, still dingy, going through doors and turning corners until John was hopelessly lost. The man in the suit finally stopped before a numberless door, the fifth they had come across on this level. He opened it and entered, John following like a duckling after its mother.

Now _this_ looked like a proper office for government work. A plain desk directly in front was topped with two phones and a laptop computer. There were two tall, four drawer black filing cabinets to the left, one of which had one of those bright green curly-cue bamboo plants on top. Directly behind the desk was a closed door. Two chairs with seat covers in generic hospital patterns were tight against the wall immediately to John's right. The dark brown carpet that felt thin even through John's shoes, and the dark walls, well. The color was not inspirational.

The inner door opened and another man beckoned to John. He wore a brown suit with a plain mauve tie. "Captain Watson, please come this way."

Unable to deny the request even if he might want to, John went straight in. Like the rest of this level, the office was dark, though the color was a more soothing storm grey than cold ochre brown of the other room. Here there was a portrait of the Queen, and from somewhere, pure daylight highlighting the back wall. So, not in the basement, then.

"Hello, John."

The voice came from behind, and he spun to see Sherlock standing in the corner, smirking at him and stripping off his gloves. "Jesus - how - "

Sherlock winked, tucking his gloves into his pockets. "Jeremiah was out to lunch when they came to take Mycroft and Anthea."

"Are you sure she was taken at the same time?" asked the young man, stepping to one side as Sherlock swanned behind the desk. "Sorry, dumb question."

"Contrary to popular belief there _are_ actually dumb questions, but in this case you are spot on," Sherlock sat down and began to rifle through the drawers. "Andrea is well trained, though you wouldn't know it to look at her."

Jeremiah clasped his hands together and tilted forward slightly. "It's 'Anthea'."

"Yes of course it is, it's Tuesday. What about Janet?"

"She was at the Circus, doing research."

"I'm sure. John, why wouldn't a scalp bleed much if the person is still alive?"

"Um, there's no hard and fast rule, but generally speaking, the scalp must have a laceration for blood to flow."

Sherlock peered at a scrap of paper from the center drawer. He shook his head and put it in his inner coat pocket.

"Mr. Holmes - " began Jeremiah.

"It's personal," replied Sherlock. He removed the paper and offered it to Jeremiah. "Take a look if you don't believe me."

"We're not supposed to let anything leave without Mr. Holmes' say-so."

" _I_ am a 'Mr. Holmes', and I _do_ say so."

John moved away from Jeremiah. Never good to be in the blame zone. 

"John, what do you see?"

He looked around again. Not much, to be honest. "Just the usual assortment of things you'd find in any office. The glass globe of the world is a nice touch, though."

It was. Etched glass, not painted. A little ominous, actually.

"Mr. Holmes," called the gentleman who had led John in, leaning through the open doorway of the outer door. "Security is on its way."

Sherlock glanced down at the desk, then rolled back and dropped to the floor. John could only see the tips of his fingers, palpating the carpet. If Security was coming, they had better be going. "Sherlock, come on."

"Kevin, where are they?" asked Jeremiah, rubbing one finger behind his ear with studied disregard.

The other man had his finger to his ear as well. "They're here. Captain Watson, please come this way."

John looked at Sherlock, hesitated. That was all it took for Jeremiah to step closer and take his upper arm. "What the hell are you doing? Sherlock!"

Jeremiah pulled him towards the outer office. "Time to do your job, Captain."

"Wait - " He allowed himself to be pushed through, watched the door close firmly behind Jeremiah.

Jeremiah took the seat at the desk, tapping at the laptop's keyboard. "Kev, do the other door, quick."

John stood, befuddled. If Sherlock was in his brother's office, surely Security would find him there and then there would be some kind of hell to pay. He looked between Jeremiah and Kevin, who now seemed to be ordinary office workers; overworked and overtired.

The outer door burst open, a woman and a man coming straight in. The woman wore a skirt suit in some indeterminate shade of brown - seriously, too popular a color in government - the man in a bland and broad navy suit with a black and white striped tie. The woman stared hard at John and barked, "Gentleman! This man does not have permission to be in this building."

Jeremiah glared up at John, who remembered what Sherlock had said in the car. "I must protest, miss - "

"Dalziel, escort this man to the cloak room."

"I'm here to see Mr. Holmes," John said loudly. Yes, a full on strop would do quite nicely. He let loose the control that had kept him walking and talking since the early hours of the morning. "I won't take no for an answer!"

"Out," said the woman.

"What's your name?" he demanded. "I'm a British Citizen and I demand to know your name! What's your department? Get your damned hands off me!"

The woman said nothing more, merely stepped to one side as Dalziel expertly strong-armed John out of the office, down the hall, through several sets of doors and then, rather abruptly, into what was clearly an interrogation room.

Oh _god_.

**Author's Note:**

> This section was a bit of a bear for various reasons. Hopefully next week it'll go more smoothly...


End file.
